Like My Father
by Confused Pumpkin
Summary: "Does it hurt, Alex?" "Does what hurt?" "When you kill someone. Does it hurt?" The boys are silent for a long moment before Alex replies. "No, Tom." John/Scorpia AU. Father's Day is difficult when your dad's an assassin, isn't it?


**A/N:** Takes place the June after Alex's fifteen birthday. John Rider worked for Scorpia, and Alex briefly worked with them as an assassin. Italicised parts are flashbacks.

**Title:** Like My Father

**Summary:** "Does it hurt, Alex?" "Does what hurt?" "When you kill someone. Does it hurt?" The boys are silent for a long moment before Alex replies. "No, Tom." John/Scorpia AU. Father's Day is difficult when your dad's an assassin, isn't it?

**Rating:** T

**Characters/Pairing(s):** Alex, Tom, Brookland Comprehensive

**Warning(s):** Violence, flashbacks

**Words:** ~2550

Disclaimer: All publically recognisable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

"_He followed in his father's footsteps, but his gait was somewhat erratic."_ –Nicolas Bentley

* * *

The third Friday of June is a deliciously warm early-summer's day in Chelsea, London.

Alex is itching for the bell to ring so he can go to PE, his last period of the day. He doesn't mind football practice so much as he does double maths, and this is mostly because Mr. Wiseman has decided to restore him to first team. After all, Alex has stayed in school all term, and he enjoys football much more than he does trigonometry.

Glancing up at the clock, he has to resist the urge to fidget when he sees that he still has forty minutes left of class.

The maths teacher gains his feet unsteadily and shuffles to the front of the room, pushing his round glasses up his nose. In a way, his morbid size reminds Alex of Smithers, but the teacher has none of the MI6 technician's joviality.

"You may put your maths books away now," Mr. Evangel says.

Surprised twitters take over the class as the students turn to each other and begin to whisper about the unexpected change of events. One girl pumps her fist into the air and without even waiting for permission to speak, yells out, "But sir, what are we doing now?"

Alex slides his books into his bag and watches with interest as Evangel passes out a sheet of paper. When he receives one, he reads the heading and his heart sinks.

_**Father's Day**_

_What it means to us._

He sends a wistful glance out the window. Outside, he can see the parking lot and a few cars driving down the road past the entrance of the school. Somewhere out there, the playing fields are waiting for him. And beyond that are Liverpool Street and its many, many secrets. Secrets that trace back to those words on Alex's paper.

Perhaps seeing his student's absent-mindedness, Evangel calls out, "Rider! Please start reading."

Alex lowers his gaze and begins to read. "Father's Day – What it means to us." He takes a breath and plunges ahead. "Many countries celebrate Father's Day. Here in England, it is celebrated on the third Sunday in June. On this day, children honour their fathers and the influence these men have in their lives. What does Father's Day mean to you?"

He looks up expectantly, and the teacher nods. "Very good, Alex. Keep going."

"Take twenty minutes to write a quick paper on your father. Include his job, his personality, and how much of an influence he is in your life. Don't forget to..." He falters for a second, and a few heads swivel to look at him strangely. "...to write about whether or not you want to follow in his footsteps. Be prepared to share this with your class."

"Alright, class!" Evangel says. "Any questions?"

Alex hunches in his seat, wondering at his dilemma. Doesn't the school know that his father is dead? He is sure they do, but his classmates don't. They only know that his uncle had died. Thankfully, he is saved from having to reveal such personal information by another girl, who asks, "Sir, what do you do if your father doesn't play an active role in your life?"

"Write about what you know about him and what you wish could change about your relationship. Any other questions?" When no one says anything more, the teacher makes a show of looking at the watch strapped to his large wrist. "You have twenty minutes starting now."

Immediately, the room is full of the sounds of pens scratching on paper. Alex sits forward and picks up his pencil. He taps the eraser end on his nose and thinks hard. What could he possibly write about?

_My father was a killer. He was an assassin who killed for money. I never wanted to be like him. I never meant to follow in his footsteps_.

The twenty minutes are up too soon. When the teacher tells them to put their pencils down, a few students groan about the fact that they hadn't finished. Alex thinks they are better off than him – he hasn't written a single thing on his paper other than "My father."

"I hope you are all prepared to share your essays with the class. Lily! Let's start with you."

Lily picks up her paper and, a little pink around the ears, begins to tell the class about her father. "My pop's an engineer. We always go to the cinema together on Fridays. He works on the weekdays but he's always free to do something fun on the weekends."

-AR-

"_Ian, will I ever meet Dad?"_

"_Maybe one day, Alex."_

"_Oh." Silence, uncomfortable and stifling. Ian's lips are pressed too tightly together, white and bloodless around the edges. Alex, seven years old and eating ice-cream, doesn't notice. "Ian, do you believe in Heaven? Will I see Dad in Heaven?"_

"_I don't know, Alex."_

"_But won't Mum be in Heaven? She was good, wasn't she?"_

_Ian looks shocked. "Of course she was."_

"_So why won't Dad be in Heaven? What did Dad do wrong, Ian? Why wasn't he good?"_

"_...I don't know." It comes out as a sigh._

_It is the first time Alex realises that Ian doesn't know everything._

-AR-

James Hale reads his paper next. "My father divorced my mother two years ago. He moved to the United States soon after the divorce. I still visit him sometimes. Everyone says that I look just like him. We have the same hair, they say, and the same eyes..."

-AR-

"_The spitting image of John..."_

"_Just like his father..."_

"_Look at him...Alex Rider...same face..."_

"_Very good-looking man...as handsome as you'll grow up to be..."_

"_Looks just like John..."_

"_Alex...looking at you now, I can see him..."_

"_I knew your father, Alex..."_

"_Was a good friend of mine...you're his spitting image...almost as though he's come back..."_

"_This is your father, age twenty-six." Julia Rothman slides the black-and-white photograph over to him and Alex picks it up. The man depicted certainly looks like him. They have the same watchful eyes, though he can't see the colour. He wonders if he can reach through nineteen years' time and pull the man out of the paper._

_I don't want to be like my father._

-AR-

"My father works for the British government. He advises the Prime Minister in some subjects. He's actually very high-up." The pride in Jason Kelly's voice practically leaks through, and Alex flinches away from the sound of it.

-AR-

"_I'm not like you. I'm not like that at all."_

"_How strange. Your father was."_

"_He was an assassin...one of the best."_

"_Worked for Scorpia. Killed five or six men. Very effective."_

_His father was a killer. How could anyone be proud of that?_

_He deserved to die._

_I'm not like him._

_Please – listen to me. I'm not my father._

"_You could be great with us, Alex. You'll be just like your father."_

_I don't want to be like my father._

-AR-

"I've always wanted to please my father," Tom says quietly. "He – He doesn't get along very well with my mother, but he's a good man who wants the best for me, I think. He wants me and my brother Jerry to get a good education. I want him to be proud of me..."

Tom is looking at him. Alex can feel his friend's eyes boring into him. "I really do love my dad. Even if we don't always get along, even if I disagree with some things he does, I love him, and I want him to be proud of what I've done..."

-AR-

_Can you see me now, Dad?_

_Do you like what I'm doing, what I'm doing for you?_

_Do you like that I'm becoming just like you?_

_The target is approaching. He looks so ordinary, just another man with a family, probably with a wife and kids, who somehow upset Scorpia. Alex squeezes the barrel of his rifle and peers through the sniperscope with its telescopic lenses. The world shows up in muted shades of green, and the target's sharpened face turns into that of an unnatural alien._

_The night is less than mild and a little windy. The teenager on the rooftop doesn't notice the chilly breeze tugging at his hair and clothes. His concentration is focused on the man making his way through the darkened streets below him._

_Am I just like you now, Father?_

_He barely hesitates. The rifle is equipped with a long silencer that absorbs the sound of the gun's firing as a .22 calibre bullet is spat out of the mouth. Alex shifts his body as the recoil races through him, and his eyes never leave the target, who is suddenly on the ground._

_There is a perfect little hole in the middle of the man's forehead. A little hole with jagged edges. Two drops of blood ooze out and leave a scarlet trail along the dead man's eyebrow. His eyes are still open with surprise._

_Alex is gone even before the screaming starts._

_Are you proud of me, Dad?_

-AR-

"My dad died last September." Sasha Corin's voice is low with grief. "He was caught in an industrial explosion while on a business trip in France."

Alex avoids looking at her. His stomach is squirming in discomfort, and there is a familiar pricking sensation behind his eyes. Normally, he only cries in desperation when he is caught in life-or-death situations, but everything that happened last September has left a permanent scar in his mind. He remembers the day he received the order to kill Markus Corin.

Sasha continues in a stronger voice. "I swore when he died that I would fulfil all of his dreams. I'm going to follow in my father's footsteps."

-AR-

_I don't want to be my father._

"_You could be great with Scorpia, Alex. Your father was one of our best assassins. He was brilliant. We were devastated when he died."_

_I don't want to be like him._

"_John Rider was a brave man. He may have killed people, but they were people who deserved to die. Follow in his footsteps, Alex. We are an organisation that can benefit greatly from you. You could be better than Nile, better than Yassen Gregorovich. You could become a leader. You could become rich – rich, and powerful."_

_I'm not my father._

"_Your father did it for the money. He didn't always enjoy killing. But he needed the money to help your mother, who was pregnant with you. He did it for the money, and for his family."_

_I can't be like him._

"_Join Scorpia, and find your destiny. Your family's destiny has always lain with us."_

_I won't be like him._

_I don't want to be like my father._

-AR-

"What about you, Rider?"

Alex looks up, startled. "I'm sorry, sir?" he says uncertainly, so lost in the memories that he isn't even aware that it is his turn to share his writing.

Mr. Evangel is patient. "Your paper, Alex. What did you write about your father?"

"Nothing."

"Alex..." The tone is warning.

He sighs. "My father worked for...the Italian government. He did his job well, so well that the authorities wanted him to teach others. I – I'm not sure what he was like, but people say he was brave and determined. There. The end. Happy now?"

"And do you want to follow in his footsteps?"

"No." Alex doesn't even hesitate in answering, and the look he sends his paper is one of deepest disgust. _I never want to be like my father._

And on that happy note, the bell rings.

-AR-

Alex jogs along the centreline, enjoying the feel of the wind in his hair. He feels vaguely sticky with sweat, and the sun is unbelievably hot this June, but it is a comforting feeling compared to the run-for-your-life feelings he is force to experience on missions.

"Alex! Here!"

He runs two more steps before kicking the football over to number twenty-four, who is barrelling toward the goal on the opposite end of the field. Alex turns away, unused to playing defence. Normally, he played striker, but Mr. Wiseman decided that his absences would do less damage with him playing defence.

This is only a practice game and he might be given a higher position in a real game, but the thought of being demoted still stings.

Ten minutes later, the whistle is blown for halftime and he collapses, boneless, on the bleachers. Tom flops onto the ground next to his legs, too exhausted to even try to sit on the seats. Alex rips off his soaked jersey and accepts the bottle of water that his friend offers him.

"Thanks."

Tom nods, an uncharacteristically serious look on his face. He seems to be studying Alex's chest, and what passes behind his eyes is unreadable.

"What?" Alex is almost smiling, the earlier events of double maths already having faded with the rush of adrenaline from the game. His voice is teasing; he doesn't expect the question that comes out of Tom's mouth next.

"Does it hurt, Alex?"

"Does what hurt?" His hand strays toward the bullet wound decorating the skin above his heart, which Tom is staring blatantly at.

"When you kill someone. Does it hurt?"

The blond stills. He glances sideways at his friend. Tom knows about John Rider and what Alex's father did for a living. He also knows about the Scorpia fiasco last September. He knows that Alex has killed before, that Alex has murdered in cold blood. And suddenly, he wants to know what it's like, the Friday before Father's Day.

The boys are silent for a long time before Alex replies, "No, Tom."

Clearly, Tom is not expecting this. "No? Then – what _does_ it feel like?"

"Like nothing. Like darkness." Alex takes another sip of water before capping the bottle and putting it aside. He waves his jersey and the hot June afternoon quickly dries the material enough that he can put it back on. His dark-haired friend watches quietly.

"What do you mean?"

"You don't feel anything, Tom. When you kill for the first time, all the rules become broken. Nothing's the same anymore. Feelings aren't the same, words aren't the same, you don't even see things the same way anymore. You can't – see. You can't feel either."

"You're never angry with yourself, or disgusted, or even – elated?"

"No."

"So you're numb?"

"I suppose. There's always the adrenaline rush, but that's only before you pull the trigger. After you kill someone, you don't feel anything. You're just...tired. Exhausted. You want to lie down and sleep for a million years and maybe never wake up."

Tom glances at him, disturbed by what he hears coming out of his friend's mouth. "I hope that never happens to you again."

Alex looks tired, tired and old. "I hope so too."

"You're not going to ever go back to them, are you?" The shorter of the two looks anxious.

Alex knows that by _them_, Tom means Scorpia. "No. I'm not my father."

Mr. Wiseman yells at them for not hearing the whistle signalling the beginning of the second half of the game. Alex unfolds himself from the bleachers and jogs back to the field with Tom in tow.

_Happy Father's Day, Dad._

* * *

Review, please? It makes me sad when people favourite or read but don't review! (And it makes Alex sad too. You don't want to make Alex sad, do you?)


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